


Shared Pain

by InkFire_Scribe



Series: Changing Times [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Character Death, Character Death Fix, F/M, Fix-It, Grief, Romance, Rule 63, fem!Bilbo, girl!Bilbo, lady!Bilbo, timetravel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 08:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17915339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkFire_Scribe/pseuds/InkFire_Scribe
Summary: Thorin cannot lose his burglar. He is too broken to lose her, too hurt, too weak. He can't do it. So... he'll just have to undo it.Sequel toConcerning Timetravel.





	1. What Good?

Thorin heard it, even over the tumult of the battle. The clash of swords and shields, spears and bows wasn't enough to mask the bell-like ringing of an elven blade against the bare stone. The dwarf king turned to scan the heaving mass of warriors about him. He saw Bofur's hat, the flash of Balin's hair, hear the roar of Dwalin's battle-cry. But he knew that sound, having heard it too many times while the halfling sparred with his nephews on their way here. He knew the sound of the elf-dagger as it hit the ground, and he dreaded what it might mean at a time like this. There wasn't time to think about it, though, as an orc swung its ax at his head with a bellow of rage. 

By the time the Battle was calm again, Thorin was almost too numb to think. His body was as heavy as though his limbs were filled with sand, weariness weighing them nearly to the ground. He leaned on his sword and scanned the remains of the armies. The Elves and Men pursuing the fleeing goblins. Beorn in the form of a huge bear, cornering the last of Bolg's bodyguard. Dain and his folk rallying near the gate, bellowing victory cries to the Mountain. Nothing was settled, but at least they weren't all dead. Not dead was good. 

The memory of a blade ringing against stone jogged his mind out of its fog of exhaustion, and Thorin straightened suddenly, eyes wide. The halfling had betrayed him. The burglar had stolen from him. And yet... and yet he knew that the hobbit was still  _ his _ burglar, and he needed to find her. 

"Bilbo!" The cry broke from him, and Thorin was startled to find how quickly the aches and exhaustion fell away from his limbs as he forced himself into motion. He needed to find his burglar. "Bilbo!" 

"Thorin!" There was Balin, waving his chipped and bloodied ax, trying to get his attention. Thorin swung toward him, his legs opening in a stiff stride that might have been a jog if not for the strain his knees had already been through this day. "She's here." Balin wore a bleak look, gazing down at the the sad bundle at his feet. 

It was Bilbo. Her ragged blue coat was in tatters, her face slashed open on her blind side, and a pool of blood under her motionless body. The elven dagger lay on the stone nearby, stained with ichor from her efforts to help. To help them. Thorin couldn't process emotions right now. He could only act. Dropping Orcrist, he stooped, knelt, gathered the hobbit to his breast. He could feel her limp weight in his arms, sagging heavily against already tired sinews. She seemed heavier now than he remembered. Heavier than he could ever recall her feeling. 

"Is she...?" 

"I... don't know. I couldn't find a pulse." 

"Where's Gandalf?" 

"I don't know." 

"Then what good are you?!" Thorin shouted the words suddenly, unable to contain them. He knew it wasn't Balin's fault. Not even remotely. But there was too much seething inside to just let it boil under the surface. If he tried, he would explode. 


	2. Sign of Life

He lifted her. She was heavy in his arms, and he could feel the warm, wet, slipperiness of blood on his right hand, supporting her back as he held her against his chest. There was no time. He couldn't feel any stirring of life in her, he could see nothing in her face that even hinted at awareness. But he couldn't believe she was gone. Not yet. She had proved too resilient, too clever to expire like this. 

"Come back to me, Baggins," he whispered. "Come back. Your luck can see you through one more time." Just once more. That was all he would ask. 

"Where are you going?" Balin was at his side, ax in one hand, Orcrist in the other. 

"To find an healer," said Thorin grimly. There was no explanation worth giving, so he started toward the Mountain. It was nearer than the mouth of the valley. Many of Dain's folk were gathered there, and Thorin clung to the hope that one of them, any of them, were Healers. He hadn't seen anything of Oin since the Battle had started, and didn't dare hope that he had survived. Some of the others joined him as they crossed the battlefield. Nori, panting under the limp body of Bofur, whose hat had gone missing at some point. Dwalin, cradling his arm against his side. He couldn't lift or flex it, but he was holding stubbornly to a small, one-handed ax that was missing the upper portion of its half-moon blade. Dori, with one hand tucked into the enfolding crook of his armpit. From the amount of blood on that side of his body, Thorin suspected he might have lost the hand. The last to join them were Fili and Kili. The blond was nearly unconscious, groaning with pain as they took each step, sweat standing out on his brow. 

Thorin felt the loss for each one, reflecting that living a maimed life was far more cruel than losing one's life completely. It was a partial life, for a dwarf unable to work. This would not change who they were, but it would change what they could do, and that was almost as bad. The rain pelted his face, turning colder. The wind off the Mountain whistled between the stones, and the warriors of Dain's company didn't notice the Mountain King until he was nearly upon them. One ran to alert Dain, others moved in to help the injured. None were untouched, but some still had the use of all four limbs. None here in the open were badly maimed, and Thorin concluded that the injured had been taken in already. 

"Here, Lord, I'll take that one," offered a warrior with a greying beard, his dented helm sitting rather higher on his head than it ought to have. As the warrior's broad, callused hands reached for Bilbo, Thorin felt something like rage boil up inside him. Maybe not rage. Maybe it was something more like desperation. Mahal knew he had never wanted something quite so much as he wanted Bilbo to live. 

"Don't touch her," he snarled, jerking the halfling out of the warrior's reach. His mind went briefly back to the Arkenstone. If it had been the stone, would he have felt the same? It was his. His family's heirloom. The symbol of his right to take the throne. 

No. It wouldn't have been the same. The Arkenstone was a thing. His burglar was worth more than that. 

"Yes, Lord," murmured the warrior, and his words were almost lost in the whistling wind as he gave back a step, clearing the way for Thorin. The shattered gate gave into pandemonium. Healers of every age, creed, and color were rushing about the entryway. Some were Dwarves, tending to the needs of injured dwarves. Others were Men, helping where they could. Still more were Elves, chanting or singing softly as they treated the worst injuries. 

"Your Majesty!" One of the nearby healers straightened, stunned into awareness by the sight of her king. "I thought you had-"

"Nevermind." Thorin forced his leaden legs to carry him just a little farther inside, then knelt by the wall and laid his burglar down on the dusty stone. Outside, thunder roared. More injured were streaming in, but he had the attention of a healer. "This halfling cannot die. Don't let her die." He spoke so firmly, so authoritatively, that the healer answered "yessir" before she had even the chance to look at her new patient. 

Thorin could see the healer's fingers shake, her hands fumbling with the weariness of many days' march and a hard battle. She was injured as well, bearing a thick pad of bandage about the thigh of one leg and moving with a heavy limp, but her arms and hands were functional, and in a moment, she had the ragged blue coat open and had slipped it off the tiny halfling's body. It was then that Thorin saw Bilbo was shivering. She was deathly pale, barely breathing, and still bleeding, but she was shivering. She was alive. 


	3. The Trial of Letting Go

"Save her." 

"I'm trying."

"You're not trying hard enough."

"I'm doing all I can!"

"Thorin, give the lady some space."

"She doesn't need space - she needs to do her job!" 

Thorin felt like his guts were full of boiling lead. If this continued much longer, he would fall to pieces, for sure. In his outraged distress he couldn't see the healer as a person. He was too wrapped up in his own worries to realize that the dwarrowdam was nearly in tears as she worked as hard and as fast as she could. Her fingers shook as she stitched the gash in Bilbo's cheek. Her hands were unsteady as she cleaned the gash that had opened up Bilbo's back, down to the bone, packed it with herbs, then bound it with clean bandages that they would quickly run out of. There was no doubt there weren't enough healers or enough supplies to tend the myriad wounded. The entrance hall was echoing with the groans and cries of the injured. Even his own nephews were among them, and Thorin knew he should be with them. But he couldn't take his eyes off the burglar's face. She had stopped shivering. 

"Why isn't she moving? She was shivering before. Why did she stop?" What about Fili? Was he going to be okay? What about Dwalin? And Balin? And Nori? What about the rest of them? Where was Bombur? But those words never passed his lips. He couldn't. 

The healer lowered her head to the halfling's chest, pressing her ear to the soft skin under her collarbone. She didn't answer for a long time. 

"Her heart's stopped," she said at last, sitting back with a look of grief and guilt on her broad face. 

"No." Thorin shook his head, groping for his sword. It wasn't there. He had to make her try again. Make her tell the truth. "No. You're mistaken. Try again." 

The healer shook her weary head right back at him. "She's gone, sir. Your Majesty, there's nothing more I can do." 

"You're wrong!" What about Oin? Where's he? He can help. He's always been able to help. "You're wrong and you need to try again!" Thorin's fists came up, ready to enforce the order with a blow. 

But the healer just sat there on the floor, looking up at him with those sad, tired eyes. Here they were, surrounded by pain and death and suffering, and she was making more of it. It wasn't fair. Thorin lashed out, not even considering that someone might be watching. Not thinking that there might be a diplomatic way to handle this. He was done being diplomatic. He was done trying to live for other people. His family's heirlooms, his grandfather's crown, his father's kingdom, his people's home. On and on and on it had dragged him until he was here, more than half of his life spent on other people, and the one thing he had wanted for himself had been taken away. Thorin pulled back for another punch, but someone grabbed his arm. 

"No, Thorin. Don't. It's not her fault." It was Balin. Good old Balin. Loyal. Strong. Steady. 

Wrong. 

He had to be wrong. 

"She's not," Thorin hissed, and felt the sting of tears in his eyes. "She's not _.  _ I won't allow it." 

"It's over, Thorin," repeated Balin, and he gripped his king's arm more tightly. "She's gone." 

Thorin wrenched away. He might even have punched Balin, but that would have taken too much time. He fell on his face, his ear pressed to Bilbo's chest, one hand on her shoulder, ready to shake her. To wake her. But he heard nothing. No heartbeat. No breath. There was only silence, and the chill of her skin against his cheek. 

"You have to let her go," said Balin sadly. "Your people need you." 


	4. No King at All

Thorin couldn't. Though he stood, though he let go of the halfing's arm, though he blinked back the tears, it felt as though he were still kneeling at her side. Though he walked to the others, though he spent his time speaking with the healers, though he allowed his own injuries to be treated, his mind continued to dwell on her. He couldn't have said what conversations were held, what decisions were made, or even who had been with him after Bilbo had... he couldn't remember anything clearly, beyond her face and the stillness of her body. 

It was therefore a surprise when Thorin found himself standing just inside a door, looking at a dusty fourposter covered in fresh sleeping furs. He looked at the bed, wondering how he'd gotten here (and where he even was) when someone patted his shoulder from behind. 

"Sleep if you can, my king." That was Balin's weary voice. He could tell by the roughness of the words that the old dwarf was on his last legs. If he was asked to do one more thing, he would collapse. Thorin surprised himself with a sudden upwelling of compassion. He turned to his old friend, remembering how Balin had helped him when Bilbo was in trouble... and put a hand on the dwarf's stooped shoulder. 

"What about you? Do you have a place to sleep?" It was a little embarrassing to note his own voice was so broken he might have been about to shed tears, though he felt much too wrung-out to do any such thing. Balin looked at him with something like disbelief in his face, but he smiled with relief when he saw that his king was in fact speaking directly to him. 

"There are places. I'll be fine. Besides, I'll need to keep an eye on Dwalin. If I don't, he'll find a way to get himself in trouble with Dain's folk." Balin shrugged with a helpless, tired smile, and took a step back, preparing to close the scarred, scorched door. It was at that moment that everything inside Thorin's emotionally eviscerated chest rebelled at once. His reaction was so immediate and painful that he nearly emptied his stomach on the floor, but he managed to swallow back the bile in his mouth by reaching out to Balin and clasping his shoulder. 

"I can't... don't leave me tonight, Bal. I can't do it."

This admission of weakness was so unexpected that Balin was at first uncertain what to do with it. After a moment's internal debate, he grasped his king's hand. "That's alright. Come on with me, and we'll find the others." 

Thorin found himself near to drowning in his own unsettled thoughts. It was what he imagined it would be like, awash in a storm at sea, powerless to find a place of calm, helpless against the fury of a world so much bigger than he was. He followed Balin, because concentrating on the next step was the only thing that was keeping him from the dark, cold depths threatening to swallow him. 

Most of the Company were gathered in a guardroom they had slept in during the days of siege before Dain and his people had joined them. Thorin and Balin joined them there, and while no one commented aloud about his presence, the Mountain King was aware enough to note their expressions as they glanced in his direction. Nervous. Uncertain. Pitying. 

No. Staying here wasn't going to work. Without a word, he got to his feet and made his way toward the door again. The halls were mostly empty, save for the occasional guard, who merely saluted him or bowed. Again, the stormy sea of his mind might have swamped and drowned him if he hadn't focused on the next action, almost to the exclusion of all else. He needed to see Bilbo. He needed to confirm one more time, just once more, that she really was gone. She was too brave, too good, too clever to have died so simply. He thought back to her thieving of the gem, the Arkenstone of Thrain, and wondered if she hadn't felt a little bit proud of it. She hadn't been caught, after all, until she had admitted to the crime on her own terms, and afterward, she had explained that she had done it, not to profit or for her own gain, but to protect her friends. It had been a terrible, stupid idea and it had backfired spectacularly - Thorin was sure he would never have trusted her again with anything of monetary value (similar to how he never trusted Nori with objects of monetary value). But she had done it for him. 

The bodies of the dead were laid in state in a side hall near the throne room. It had once been a small cafeteria, but without any supplies in the kitchens and not enough dwarves to fill one meal hall, let alone two or three, it was as good a place to store the bodies as any. 

"Store the bodies." Like they were crates of goods, or gems for sale. 

Thorin sighed. The air here was thick with blood and dust, and stank of dragon in the worst way. Smaug had taken special care to defile all the chambers large enough to accommodate his growing bulk. It would take a long time to get rid of that stench. 

Slightly apart from the bodies of the fallen dwarves, still clad in dented, sheared armor, there were two small forms. One was his burglar, half covered in the blue velvet jacket given to her by the Lakemen. The figure beside her was a young human boy with dark hair. The child looked familiar, and Thorin gazed at him for a long time before he recognized the young, beardless face. 

Bard.

This was Bard's son. 

The realization left him feeling empty and cold. No one was untouched by this battle and the evil that had followed the dragon's departure. The gold was still there, and there would be many more that tried to claim a share of it, but Thorin no longer cared. In fact, he would have liked nothing better than to trade away every gold piece, gem, plate, weapon, instrument, and bauble in the Mountain to others for a single moment with his burglar, or for the redemption of even one loved one. There was too much loss here to be ignored. 

His knees creaked as he crouched beside Bilbo's motionless form. Pressing a hand against her chest, he prayed with everything he had left, crying out to the Valar for their mercy. He needed his burglar, and there was nothing he could do on his own to reclaim her. 

But the skin under his fingers was cold, and there was not even the faintest flutter of life beneath the marble skin. His hobbit was just a husk, like the rest of these poor fools, led to their deaths by leaders too blinded by greed to see the value of life in itself. 

Thorin felt his hands shaking as he shifted, taking her hand between his, holding it tight. Her fingers were curled into a fist. With patience, he managed to work the hand open, though the joints were stiff in death. He had acted with the intent of holding her hand one last time, lacing their fingers together so he might remember how it felt. But instead, something fell from her hand with the unmistakable ringing tinkle of gold. He looked down at the floor, almost lost in shadow, and saw the glint of a ring. 

Confused, but drawn to the gold like a moth to flame, he stooped to lift the ring from the floor. It was warm. It was large enough to fit his thick fingers, nevermind the slender digits of his tiny burglar. 

That was when he remembered the words of a song sung to him by a hobbit in the house of Beorn, and the explanation of Bilbo herself while they were trapped in the Elvenking's dungeon. He remembered, and he felt a cautious, almost disbelieving hope. 

A magic ring was powerful, to be sure, but could it fix this? 

A magic thing could help them escape from a dungeon and it could fool a dragon, but could it fool death?

Thorin's hands began to shake again. Did he dare try? Did he dare risk that hope on the chance that it might be true? 

What if it wasn't? What if the hope was false? Would a hollow hope be better than a failed one? 

What if it was a trap, and he were to die in the attempt? What about his people? 

Thorin closed his fingers around the ring and slipped it into his pocket. He wouldn't risk everything. Not yet. Not until he knew that Fili was ready to take his place. Or Kili, if Fili didn't recover. That thought was like a dagger of ice to his heart. Dis would never forgive him. 

But it was for the best. 

Half a king was no king at all. 


	5. Back

Three days had passed, and Thorin didn't feel any more settled than he had when the Battle was still fresh. The valley before the ruined gates was still filled with more bodies than could be counted. It seemed that the orcs, as in life, were too numerous for them, and two sprang up to take the place of one. A mass grave had been dug to the west, but it wouldn't be adequate. 

The Mountain was filled with Elves and Dwarves and Men, the second dining hall still filled with the bodies of those not yet properly buried. The Elves burned their fallen kin, as there were too many to bury with respect. The Men dug individual graves for each of their fallen brothers, too determined to give way. The Dwarves carved and filled tombs as quickly as their numbers would allow. 

Maybe it was a lost cause, but Thorin felt the Mountain was in a better position than it had been in many a long year, as the Lakemen took up residence in one of the upper levels, and helped run the kitchens and forges while they stayed. Balin had agreed to witness the official documents guaranteeing Bard and his folk a full winter of shelter in the Mountain, and an additional year at his discretion as Laketown (or Dale) was being rebuilt. A second document was drawn up, declaring Fili heir to the throne should anything happen to Thorin, now that it was certain he would live. Fili might yet lose his arm, but he was no longer in immediate danger of expiring, which was a relief to all his family. 

Thorin couldn't have honestly brought himself to take such a risk until everything was prepared in the case of his demise. Saving Bilbo was worth the risk, but he wouldn't sacrifice his kingdom for the sake of one life, even one as dear as his burglar. 

Now, however, things were ready. He was prepared for the worst and braced for the best, and trapped between the two possibilities without moving forward would drown him if he didn't do something. So, shortly after the noon meal, he retreated to his study. Dressing himself in the heavy plate armor was difficult with only one pair of hands to do it, but he had it on and secure quickly enough. Then the dwarf king took the little golden ring out of the jewelry box he'd locked it in, and breathed deeply to steady his hands.

"If I'm wrong," he said aloud to the empty room, "then I'm a fool, but at least I tried. If I'm right... then it's worth it. For her." There was no one to witness these words, but it seemed important to him that he said them all the same. Thorin glanced at the door one more time, checked to make sure his sword was hanging from his belt as it should be, then slipped the ring onto his finger, thinking intently of the Battle. Thinking of the sound of Bilbo's voice calling to him through the din, before he had heard the ring of her sword falling. 

The roar of an orc vibrated along his bones. Orcrist blazed like blue lightning, leaping from its sheath nearly on its own power, his fingers tight around the hilt as the blade swept up in a blinding arc, slicing the orc's arms clean away before its two-handed blow could fall. He felt a weight drag at his belt as someone grabbed hold of it, but it wasn't a goblin's guttural threat that he heard. Instead, it was his burglar's voice in his ear. 

"Thorin! The trolls!" Her voice was frantic, but he couldn't allow himself to be distracted. Not yet. He slew the armless orc and dispatched a warg before turning to look over his shoulder at the halfling he could still feel clinging to his belt from behind. But he couldn't see her. 

"Miss Baggins?" 

"The trolls, Thorin! Coming up the valley!" Her voice was shrill. He remembered how the ring made her invisible in the Elves' dungeon. But he was wearing the ring, and he wasn't invisible. Deciding he could think about it later, Thorin looked toward the mouth of the valley and saw the trolls. Three huge cave trolls, using the storm to walk abroad during the day. Before he could register amazement, for he didn't remember seeing Trolls during the Battle the first time around, there was another massive shape striding out of the storm - Beorn wrapped his huge, shaggy bear's arms around the hindmost troll and pulled him down with a might roar. 

Even with the Bear, it would be wiser to steer clear of the Trolls. Even in his plate armor, it wouldn't be easy to protect his burglar and kill a Troll at the same time. 

"On my back," he called to the halfling. "Climb on my back, Miss Baggins, and hold tight." He felt her comply, but one of her arms wasn't working properly. It didn't grip half so hard as the other, and he felt the warm smear of blood under his beard as she wrapped her arms around his neck. 

"I'm sorry, Thorin. I'm sorry I stole it. I was trying to make things better." 

"Not now, burglar. We'll talk later." His swung Orcrist as fast and hard as his arms would allow, and the blade's speed was so great it sheared through the oncoming goblin's notched blade as though it were no more than grass. The enemies were too numerous to ignore, but not so overwhelming - maybe because he was fresh this time, rather than exhausted after days of angry, restless waiting. 


	6. The Bite

He heard her cry close to his ear. Not one of warning, but one of pain, and arms around his neck spasmed, slipping backward. Thorin snarled, grasping her good arm with one hand as he twisted, pulling her away from the danger and placing himself between them. There was a warg standing there, nearly as tall as he was, blood smeared over its open maw. Its red tongue was lolling out of its mouth, sides heaving even as it seemed to grin malevolently at him. 

With a roar, Thorin swung his blade one-handed, but the warg sprang back out of reach, teeth bared. They were close to the edge of the valley, and the earth under their feet sloped steeply toward the body of the Battle. Dimly, Thorin thought he heard the cry that heralded the coming of the Eagles, but he hadn't the attention to spare for it. The warg was lunging forward, low to the ground, jaws open. Thorin dodged to the side, felt Bilbo slip from his back, and twisted, trying to catch her. The footing was treacherous, and the dwarf's ankle began to turn in that inexorable, about-to-be-painful way he was too familiar with. Rather than allowing the sprain to happen, Thorin threw himself to one side, felt himself land hard on top of a small body he suspected was Bilbo, and narrowly avoided the warg's snapping jaws as it shot past him. 

The dwarf rolled and was swiftly on his feet again, looking down at the place where he had landed. Not Bilbo. It was a dead goblin. Part of him was relieved that he hadn't crushed her on accident. The rest of him was anxious because she was missing and invisible. Still, there was no time. The warg had turned, skidding on the slope, and was already preparing to spring back at him. A flash of movement caught the tail of Thorin's eye, and he lifted his sword just in time to parry the short spear that had been jabbed wildly at him. 

The fight was short and furious. Thorin slew his enemies, having more training and greater need, then immediately turned to the downward slope. "Miss Baggins!" he called, trying not to sound frightened. "Bilbo!" 

"I'm here." Bilbo's voice was faint and thick with pain. 


	7. Better than an Elf

Her body was small, warm, soft, and limp. Even as he picked her up, invisible as she was, he could see the drip and smear of her blood appear on his armor. He held her close. 

"How badly are you hurt?" Thorin felt himself tremble, and hoped the hobbit was too out of it to tell. Glancing about to confirm that there were no enemies close enough to pose an immediate threat, he carefully cradled Bilbo against his chest with one arm (which was awkward, but doable since she was so small) and held Orcrist ready in the other hand. 

"I'm... cold. And my left arm doesn't work." He could hear his burglar's voice close to his ear, clearer now that she was propped against his shoulder. "And that warg... bit my leg. Don't think I can walk." 

Safe place. He needed to get her to a safe place. Anxiety mounting in his chest, the dwarf paused, standing with one leg half bent to compensate for the slope as he scanned the Battle below for someone - anyone - that could take care of his burglar. He wasn't sure he trusted anyone to do it right. Oin. Or Bard. Maybe Gandalf? But he couldn't see any of them. 

"To me!" The high, clear call for aide could have come from none other than an elf, but Thorin felt the pull of it all the same. Resenting this distraction, he looked around for the source, if only to see who it was he would be ignoring. He saw an elf, tall and blond, surrounded by enemies, with only two dark-haired warriors with him. Thranduil. The elf king wore silver-grey armor and wielded a long, thin sword, a triangular shield hanging across his back and a quiver poking feathered shafts around the edge on one side. 

The dwarf was tempted (badly tempted) to turn his back on the elf just as Thranduil had turned his back on them so many years ago. There was no reason at all for him to help the Elvenking, no matter how great the danger. He owed that pointy-ears traitor less than nothing - in fact, he owed him the betrayal in return. And besides, he had his burglar to look after. He couldn't carry her into a situation like that. 

Feeling completely justified in his refusal to help the elf, Thorin watched dispassionately as t pack of wargs and a cluster of goblins closed in around Thranduil. 

"To me!" cried the Elvenking. "To me!" 

"To the king!" cried his guard, even as one of them fell with an orc hanging from his throat. Thorin clenched his teeth. This was what the Elvenkind deserved. There was nothing that could make him think Thranduil could possibly even begin to earn his forgiveness, his aid. 

And yet...

"He needs your help." Bilbo's voice was faint, but steady. "Set me down by that rock. I'll be fine. I'll wait for you. I promise." 

"He doesn't deserve my help," growled Thorin, holding his hobbit against his body and gripping Orcrist's hilt so tightly his hand shook. 

"Mother used to say... if you wait for someone to deserve your kindness, you'll never learn to be kind." 

Thorin looked down at the space between his arm and his chest where he could feel the hobbit's weight against him, and felt a sort of chagrin. That did sound a lot like something Belladonna would have said. And even worse, he knew that she was right. With a sigh, he shifted to the side and carefully lowered her to the ground. 

"I can't see you," he murmured. "You'll have to treat your own hurts. Can you manage?" The medicine pouch on his belt contained bandages and salve to stop bleeding. He gave both these things to her as she answered that she could do it, and pressed him to go. Adjusting his grip on Orcrist, the dwarf king stood and turned his face toward Thranduil, thinking to himself that he would regret this, but at least it would prove once and for all he was better than that pointy-eared idiot. 


	8. Deserving Kindness

"What do you want, Son of Thrain?" Thranduil was no more enthusiastic to see Thorin at his side than Thorin was to be there. Still, they fought well, back to back now as the remaining guard defended the downhill flank. There were other elves coming their direction now, but they were still a way off and had enemies to wade through to get to them. 

"Why do you assume I want something?" Thorin swept his blade along the legs of an oncoming warg, and the beast fell with a high yelp of pain. "If I wanted something, you would be the last person I would ask." Driving the point of his sword into the warg's chest felt like carving a very large game bird, the blade scraping against bone and squelching through the soft inner organs. Then he whipped the blade free and turned, ready and eyeing the nearby goblins as the bunched together for a charge. 

"You dwarves always want something," grumbled the elf, and he honestly sounded a bit like an old man as he said it. Thorin supposed he was old, even by the standards of his own race, but that was a little too close to the mark, and he let the train of thought skip off without him. 

"Everyone always wants something. In this case, you wanted my help, because you were surrounded by enemies. I came." 

And here came the goblins. They rushed forward with a howl of rage and fear, a half dozen of them in a tight cluster, bristling with rusty blades and mismatched armor. A single command brought the elf guard in close to stand at their backs as Thranduil and Thorin turned to face the new onslaught. Each stroke added to the death toll, and it took only a minute to leave the whole group of them on the slope, bleeding freely into the rocky soil as their own wargs set upon them. Thorin shuddered with disgust and wished for a rag to clean his sword with. 

The other elves were reaching them now, and Thorin turned to go. 

"Son of Thrain." Thranduil's clear voice stopped him, and he looked back at the elf. Thorin was surprised to recognize an expression of grudging gratitude on the Elvenking's face. "Thank you. For answering." 

"Those who wait for others to deserve kindness never learn to be kind." Maybe it was a little heavy-handed to repeat the hobbit's words, but on the other hand, maybe it was just fitting. With a slight, stiff bow, Thorin turned again and strode away, glad to see the slope was clear of enemies for the moment. Swiftly, he found his burglar again, gathered her to himself, and trudged toward the shattered gate, intending to take her inside, where the Healers could take care of her. He was light-headed now, and he wasn't sure if this was because of the Battle or because he'd been wearing the Ring for so long. It felt heavy on his finger, and he was sure it would have slipped off if he weren't wearing his gauntlet over the thing. 

When he drew near the gate, the dwarves rallied around him. That made it easier to batter his way through the goblins toward the gate, but part of him wanted to stay and lead them. He promised himself there was another Thorin in this Battle, and he was leading. There was another, and he was leading. It became a mantra, propelling him toward the gate, on through the thickest of the fighting. Inside. 

He set the hobbit far enough inside she wasn't in danger of being trampled. A Healer rushed to him, and Thorin wiped his blade clean on a dirty rag before sheathing it. 

"Your Majesty, are you-"

"I'm fine. See to the halfling." 

"The halfling?" The Healer looked confused, watching as Thorin pulled off his gauntlet and removed the Ring... then disappeared. 

The dwarf was in his study once more, surrounded by such thick silence he didn't know what to do with it. His armor was blood-smeared, but not dented. He was tired, but not badly injured. All in all, he had escaped very nearly unscathed. But had it worked? Had his burglar survived?


	9. Secrets is Secrets

It took some time for Thorin to remove his armor. Then, because his inner critic sounded so very much like his mother, he took the time to clean his armor and his sword properly and put them away. By the time he had finished, someone came to tell him that the midday meal was ready to eat, and would he like it served in the burglar's sickroom?

The dwarf felt a shiver run through him and knew that he must have looked more than a little relieved by the question. The servant politely pretended not to notice, giving him time to regain his composure. 

"Take me to her," he said, and was pleased when his voice sounded steady. The servant flashed him an uncertain look, but nodded, bowing deeply. They moved along at a fair clip, the servant lengthening his stride to match his king's. When they reached one of the rooms in the royal wing (which was surprisingly clean, by Thorin's recollection) the servant stopped before a door, opened it, and bowed. 

Inside, Nori was apparently dozing in a corner, and on the bed, swaddled in so many blankets she looked like nothing so much as a giant sausage, was the halfling. Thorin moved toward the bed, ignoring the chair obviously placed for his use in favor of kneeling on the floor beside her. He rested a hand on the blankets and felt the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed the peaceful, steady rhythm of sleep. She was alive. 

"I won't tell no one." Nori's voice made him jump, and Thorin tried to conceal that by standing up quickly and dusting off his trousers. 

"I don't know what you're talking about." He tried to sound haughty, but he had a feeling his guilt was more than a little obvious. "Tell what?" 

Nori was still lounging in the corner, eyes open now, smirking at his king in that insufferably smug way he had when he knew things he knew he shouldn't. "You mentioned, after the Battle, that the Healer said you carried her in, then disappeared, and that you didn't remember doing it. Now we know why, don't we?" Sitting up, the ruffian stretched casually and smiled up at Thorin. "But I knows how to keep a secret, don't I?" When the reprobate got to his feet, Thorin moved forward, entertaining the vague notion of forcing him to swear on his mother's grave or something equally superfluous. 

But instead of letting him get close, Nori skipped lightly out of reach and grinned, reaching into his wild, slicked-up hair to produce... a braid. Thorin frowned. He'd never noticed that Nori wore braids before, and after traveling with the dwarrow for so many months, it seemed unlikely it was an accidental oversight. Squinting at the silver bead that secured the end (obviously Dori's handiwork) Thorin could read two runes. The first identified the wearer as a Broadbeam. The second identified the wearer as a daughter of a family he didn't recognize immediately. 

Daughter.

The concept took a long minute to sink in. 

Before he'd fully processed the information, Nori had already tucked the bead back out of sight again, grinning like a lunatic. "Secrets is secrets." That was all he said (she said?) before leaving, patting Thorin on the shoulder. 

Thorin stayed there, standing in the middle of the room, letting the cogs turn in his brain. At length, he drifted back to his burglar's bedside and sat down in the chair, watching her sleep as the new information percolated through everything he knew about Nori and his/her siblings. 

If he'd known she was a dwarrowdam to start, he would have left her behind. 

She was fiercely protective of her younger brother, Ori, who had perished in the Goblin tunnels under the Misty Mountains, with Bifur. 

Dori, who was obviously the eldest by several decades, preferred to keep Nori where he could watch her closely. 

None of the Company (that he was aware of) had ever treated Nori as anything other than a fellow warrior. Either they had not known, or not cared. Perhaps he oughtn't to have cared either. His own mother had been a skilled warrior and trained him personally in the use and care of weapons, while his father had taught him smithcraft. When Thror and Thrain had been trapped deep in the mountain by Smaug's fire and had escaped by way of a secret passage (one of several, he now knew), his mother Fris had been leading a charge against the worm. He had lost her that day. Maybe that was why he was so reluctant to allow a dwarrowdam to join what was ultimately a suicide mission and had somehow miraculously succeeded. 

Not that it mattered anymore. The Quest was over. 

"Thorin...?" The groggy voice of his burglar brought him abruptly back to the present. Relief swept through him as he saw her eyes open, glints of hazel under thick lashes. 

"Feeling better?" he asked, remembering how small she had felt in his arms, how much of her blood he'd cleaned off his armor. 

"Better," she agreed. "Still can't feel my haaaaand." The halfling interrupted herself with a huge yawn, and squirmed until her right arm was free of the blankets. Her small hand clasped his, and Thorin felt something come undone in his chest, as though he'd been carrying a great weight and suddenly had been allowed to set it down. 

"Better is good," he murmured, and didn't pull his hand away. They could figure out the confusing parts later. For now, being alive was enough.


End file.
